I see you come into the bar; you don’t notice me, but you are unmistakable. Simply, elegantly, wonderfully dressed: a black cocktail dress, stockings, heels. The effect is almost heart-stopping, and much as I’ve been looking forward to a drink I am now in a hurry to get you out of the bar. But I’ve promised you a martini; I look at you, with the glass in your hand: you are perfect. No other cocktail could do you justice. You ask for another martini, and I try not to look (or be) to irritated when I tell the barman. I nurse my Scotch it until we leave, arm in arm.

We return to your apartment, and I take the key and hold the door for you: I do this both out of my quaint sense that chivalry is moribund, near-extinct, and needs reviving; and because I do want to catch the view of your receding back before you turn to beckon me in.

It was clear to me even in the bar that despite the grace and simplicity of your raiment, you have ignored my instruction not to wear anything too complicated, and your underpinnings are going to slow me down. Either you misunderstood me, or that was your intent: but either way, I win. I close the door and catch you around the waist, guiding you to the living room. I pour myself another Scotch, and come back to you, looking at you, appraising your appearance. You can tell that I’m pleased, and you try not to show me that you know.

My arm is around you, my lips nibbling at your ear and neck. My hands play up and down your sides; your hands ride with mine, almost automatically. I unhook your dress and slowly unzip you, leaving it to hang loosely off your shoulders. My arm slips inside the dress and around you: I feel the moan that you are trying to suppress. More kisses around your shoulders and back while my hands explore everywhere and apply just enough pressure between your thighs to tell us both how very wet you are already.

I straighten and push the dress from your shoulders, and bid you to step out of it. I sweep it aside and look you up and down: panties, fishnets, garter belt. Beautiful, but also a bit…complicated. I bite your ear and ask quietly, “Did I tell you not to wear anything complicated?” You nod, almost imperceptibly, awareness growing that you might just have miscalculated.

You don’t see the brush in my hand: the first light blow falls on your soaking pussy and you gasp. More slaps with the brush strike your buttocks, thighs, and pussy again before you see the flash of silver and feel the cold metal against your skin. One snip, two snips with the scissors and I catch the panties as they begin their glide downward towards the floor. Their liquor is intoxicating. I strike you again with the brush, and this time the triple-contact of brush, skin, and extra moisture is almost too much for you, riding that line between mild discomfort and exquisite pleasure. “I’m sorry,” you gasp.

“I know,” I say, gently, in your ear, tasting your arousal on your skin. “Show me that you’re sorry.”

You turn and embrace me, our lips locking together as if this were the one thing they were made for. Your tongue rolls with mine as you kiss with a passion you haven’t shown before; you take my hand — the one still holding the brush — and plunge it into you.

Gently, I disengage and hand you the brush. “No,” I tell you. “Show me you’re sorry.” You are puzzled at first, but then it clicks and you begin to masturbate for me, while I sit carelessly in the best seat in the house and sip my Scotch.